


The difference between then and now

by sorcxita



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:05:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorcxita/pseuds/sorcxita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: One Direction never made it to the X Factor live shows. Three years on, Harry walks into the shop where Louis works</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"The only response that ad is going to get you," Zayn says, throwing Louis' rough draft back across the counter at him, "is from a serial killer."

Louis frowns at the now-crumpled piece of paper. He’s proud of his handiwork; he's spent most of the morning working on it and refining it - admittedly when he should have been doing a stock take - and to see Zayn treat it so casually cuts deep. "As long as they pay their share of the rent, I don't care,” he says crossly. “Everything else is their own business.”

"You don't care that your new housemate might be a serial killer?" Zayn breaks off the conversation to smile at a woman who's just walked into the shop. He isn’t usually so quick off the mark to greet customers but it’s been a quiet Tuesday morning and any break from the monotony is welcome.

"Don't waste your time," Louis says with a long-suffering sigh, voice carefully pitched to be audible within a one-metre radius only. "She'll look, not buy. She's just window-shopping before she buys it online."

"You don't know that." Zayn pretends to be offended. Across the other side of the shop, the woman picks up a display handset and turns it over in her hands, poking at the buttons.

"Are you questioning my judgement, Malik? One look and I can tell what phone they think they want, what phone they can afford, and what phone I can actually sell them."

"Yeah, your judgement's so good you're reduced to advertising for serial killers-"

"I am not advertising for serial killers, you twat. How many rooms do you think I have?"

"A serial killer to move in with you then."

“Fuck off.”

The woman moves onto another handset. Zayn gives Louis a look.

"We're supposed to talk to them,” he says pointedly.

Louis sighs another long-suffering sigh. "First rule of customer service: treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen."

"I don't think it goes like that," Zayn says, shaking his head.

Louis shrugs. "When you started here – how many months ago?"

"Eight."

"Eight months ago-"

"It feels like longer."

"Eight _glorious_ months ago. What did I say to you?"

"Stick with Tommo," Zayn says resignedly.

"Correct. And here we are. And there she goes. You owe me a pound."

"I agreed to this bet when?"

Louis pouts at him. "You agreed to it without having to say a word because you love me."

Zayn rolls his eyes and goes off to rearrange the display phones the non-customer has moved around. Louis looks at his ad again and sighs. It isn’t very good, now he comes to look at it properly, with a critical eye. He just doesn’t know what he should write; he’s never had to find a housemate he didn’t already know before and he’s desperate, more so than he likes to admit. He needs a housemate who can start paying their share of the rent and the bills, because his wages from working in a shitty little phone shop in a shitty little shopping arcade aren't nearly enough to support living alone, and what savings he'd had had been swallowed up with frightening speed after his last housemate had moved out suddenly and in the middle of the night in circumstances Louis would rather not think about.

Zayn is always making pointed remarks about Louis moving into town, closer to work so he doesn't have to have a car and doesn't have to live in a tiny little stone cottage that is freezing cold even in the middle of summer and leaks in the winter, but Louis has been ignoring those remarks for three months and he isn’t going to stop now. He just needs to find the right person to move in and everything will be fine. Someone who isn’t a serial killer, preferably.

Sighing, Louis sets to rewriting the ad until he’s happy he sounds slightly less desperate and hopefully a lot less like a potential victim, and submits it to a couple of websites without any expectation of getting many replies. By four o’clock, when the afternoon rush has eased off and Louis has time to check his email again, he has forty-two replies. Thirty-three of those are offering him Viagra or free membership of an online bingo site or both (deleted); five ask for a naked photo of him (quickly deleted); three are offering to pay well under what he'd asked for in rent (very quickly deleted); and the final one has _recently divorced and still bitter and angry_ written all over it in intermittent capslock (deleted after careful consideration).

“This is shit,” he complains to Zayn once Zayn’s seen off one of the irritating types who come in and bombard the sales staff with endless questions about phone specs without having any intention of buying one. Louis shows Zayn one of the naked photo requests.

"You could charge for the naked photo," Zayn says helpfully.

Louis glares at him. “Just for that, Malik, you’re doing the stockroom tidy at the weekend.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I’ll get going, yeah? Got to finish my project for tomorrow.”

Louis glances at the clock on the wall. Somehow it’s four thirty already. “Fine, ok, leave me then. Abandon me. See if I care.”

Zayn has known Louis far too long to rise to the bait. “See you Saturday, yeah?”

“Yeah. ” Louis waves a half-hearted goodbye as Zayn collects his jacket and heads out.

It isn’t really Zayn's fault that Louis is in a suddenly pissy mood, but he hates the little reminders that Zayn has a life and a future that isn’t selling phones to confused pensioners and gullible teenagers in a shitty shopping arcade that reeks of cheap perfume and fake tan and vomit - and, ok, it isn’t the future either of them had planned but it’s still better than his. Louis doesn't feel particularly good about what he knows are nasty, mean thoughts, but somehow he just can't stop himself having them, repeatedly, particularly on the cold, damp, windy afternoons when it gets dark outside at 3pm and the brightly-lit shop becomes uncomfortably claustrophobic and Louis still has the long walk back to the only free car park in town to look forward to when his shift is done.

“I think,” he tells the cardboard stand-up girl in the corner, “Life was supposed to be better than this.”

The clock ticked on towards five o’clock with painful slowness. Louis re-arranges some promotional leaflets and the boxes of sim cards under the counter, which takes all of five minutes and leaves him with nothing to do except wander aimlessly around the shop. It’s started to rain and the street outside is emptying rapidly. Louis checks his email again but the only new message is another Viagra offer. He swears under his breath, looking up as he hears the unmistakable sound of the door opening.

Louis slides off his seat, plasters what he hopes is a friendly and welcoming smile onto his face - though it’s probably more of a grimace because the boy who’s just come in is soaking wet and dripping all over the floor - and wanders over.

“Hi, are you looking for anything in particular?” he says, as perkily as he can manage at twenty to five in the afternoon.

“A phone. Um, obviously. Sorry.” The boy’s voice is deep and drawling and strangely familiar in a way Louis can’t quite place but puts him in mind of long winter evenings and chocolate and caramel hot chocolate in front of the fire with snow falling outside.

“You’ve come to the right place!” _Idiot_.

The boy pushes back the hood of his jacket and straightens up and they make eye contact and-

\- _oh_.

Louis’ mouth goes dry.

The boy stares at him for a long, long moment and then he smiles that smile Louis remembers so well and it all comes rushing back, all of it, and Louis doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Harry,” he manages.

“Hi Louis,” Harry says, still smiling. “Um, yeah, this is weird. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

He’s taller, Louis thinks dazedly. The puppy fat he had at sixteen is gone and Louis can’t stop staring at the chiselled lines of his jaw but he’s still _Harry_. Still the boy Louis had met in the bathroom, still the boy he’d been put in a band with, still the boy who had set Louis’ heart beating faster from the very first moment he’d set eyes on him.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Louis says. “This is just a cover for my glittering career as an international popstar.”

Harry’ smile broadens. “It’s a good cover.”

“And you,” Louis says. “What about you? What are you doing here? Are you stalking me, Styles?”

Harry looks startled for a second and then he blushes. “No. I- I’m just after a phone, like really. Am, am I too late? Are you closing?”

“No, it’s fine.” Louis clears his throat. “Ok, I can help you with that. Contract or pay as you go?”

“Pay as you go.” Harry shrugs and there’s something endearing in the way he does it, like he’s trying to apologise for putting Louis out instead of asking him to do his job. “I just need a new phone.”

“Ok, well, those are the pay as you go handsets.” Louis points them out, in case Harry can’t see the huge neon sign on the wall. “After anything in particular? Do you want to keep your number?”

“Something cheap. And no.”

“Right.” Something about the way Harry says it reminds Louis of a dog expecting to be kicked and it tugs at him in a way he doesn’t particularly like, because he doesn’t remember Harry being like this when they were on X Factor. “Well, we’ll find you something. Come and see if there’s anything you like.”

The sales patter comes easily to Louis; there are three models they have incentives on this week - incentives for the sales staff, not for the customers - and he quickly runs through the features of the phones while Harry stands there and fiddles with the buttons of his jacket, his eyes fixed on Louis. Louis is normally good with eye contact – they’re all told to make lots of eye contact with the customers; it makes them trustworthy or some shit like that – but something about the way Harry stares at him so intently, so _trustingly_ , catches Louis up and throws him off his usual patter.

His voice wavers. “You know what?” he says abruptly. “You don’t need any of that. Here, what about this one?”

Harry looks at the handset Louis is pointing at and frowns. “Is that one better?” he asks hesitantly. “It’s a lot cheaper than the others”

“It’s the best deal,” Louis assures him. “It’s a good phone. And you can have a free case with it. Special offer.” It isn’t, and he’s probably going to be in shit for it, but Louis has a sudden and very pressing need to see Harry smile again and it’s been at least a month since he last got a reprimand from management.

Harry bites his lip, still staring at Louis like he’s not sure what to make of him, and then he smiles a very tiny smile and says, "Ok."

"Great," Louis says. "Go and pick a case you like while I get your phone, ok?"

He's back with the phone in minutes but he realises he needn't have bothered hurrying because Harry is still looking at the display, leaning over to look at the cases on the lower tiers - and Louis takes a second to admire what he can make out of the long, lean lines of his body in spite of his bulky jacket and the unflatteringly over-sized jeans before he clears his throat to get his attention.

"Sorry," Harry says as he straightens up. "Haven't found one I like yet."

"It's ok. Take your time."

Harry frowns a little at that. "Don't you close at five?"

Louis glances at the clock. It's five to five. Normally about this time he’d be hovering by the doors, ready to lock up on the dot. "Yeah,” he says reluctantly. “But I'll just lock the doors so no one else can come in. You can keep looking."

The frown has turned to something else now, something Louis can't quite decipher. "That's ok. I'll just pick something. I need to catch my bus, anyway."

"What time's your bus?" Louis scans the handset box to give him an excuse not to have to look over.

"Half past five."

"You'll make it, easy. The bus station's five minutes away."

"I can't miss my bus," Harry says flatly and there's something there, too, that Louis can't really put a name to. "I'll get this one." He holds up a case.

Now it's Louis' turn to frown. "No, not that one. It's terrible, really. Look, you won't be able to use the volume controls properly, they cut the holes in the wrong place. And the colour's shit too." It's four steps to where Harry's still standing, still staring at Louis. Louis takes the case from his hand. "You can have it, if you really want it, but you'd be better off with that one."

"That's more expensive," Harry objects.

"I told you; special offer." He's _really_ going to be in shit for it and Louis thinks Harry probably guesses that but he doesn't say anything, just lets Louis pick out the better case and lead him over to the till. Louis scans the case in and puts in his discount code fast enough that Harry won't see the system automatically query his special offer.

"Want me to put the sim in for you?" he asks.

Harry, halfway through pulling his wallet out of his pocket, glances up, caught off-guard. "T-thanks."

"No problem," Louis says automatically as he starts unboxing the phone and taking it apart. "Can you lock the doors for me while I do it? Don't want a sudden horde of late customers coming in or I won't get out of here until midnight. Just turn the bolt at the top."

Harry’s half way across the shop before Louis’ finished speaking. "Do you get a lot of hordes?"

"Oh yeah, every night.”

Harry comes back, smiling. "I'll have to watch out for them."

"You should. There." Louis starts putting the phone back together. "Ok, I think that's everything. All your set-up stuff is in the box, there."

Harry doesn't answer and Louis realises why when he looks up to see him reading through Louis' discarded ad. _Oh_.

"Worst ad ever, isn't it?” he says with forced cheerfulness. “I've already been told it's an open invitation to serial killers."

"Is this yours?" Harry asks, frowning at the piece of paper. "Are you looking for someone?"

Louis swallows. "Um, yeah? I need a housemate. Not a serial killer though. Why, are you looking for somewhere?"

"I need somewhere to live," Harry says, very quietly. "From next week, anyway. And I'm not a serial killer. Honest."

“I’ll take your word for it.” It’s a stupid thing to say and Louis hates, _hates_ sounding like an idiot, and normally he’d have retreated behind a wall of sarcasm to cover his own embarrassment, but he _needs_ a housemate and it’s five o’clock and the boy standing in front of him is gazing at him in a way that makes offering him a room a really bad idea.

“Do, do you want to see it?” he says. “Before you decide?”

Harry gives him a small, tight smile. “My bus goes at half past. And it’s a long journey, so, um, I can’t. Not really. But it’s ok. I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Louis says, bagging up the phone and case. “Trust people like that, I mean. I could be the serial killer. But I’m not,” he adds hurriedly. “If you give me your email I could always send you some pics of the house. You don’t use your old email address any more, do you?” He doesn’t mention that it had hurt like hell when Harry stopped replying to his emails a few months after they got kicked off X Factor.

Harry blinks, like he’s not really sure how to reply. “I don’t- I don’t have email,” he says finally.

He's obviously lying and that makes Louis wary and curious in equal measure. Ok, Harry doesn't want Louis to have his email address but Louis can't think of any good reason why not.

"It's just," he says awkwardly. "It's just that you don't really know anything about me and I don't really know anything about you. We didn’t exactly spend much time together, back then. And it’s been a while. We should probably get to know each other again before you move in."

"There's nothing new to know about me," Harry says with a small, tight smile. "Nothing interesting, anyway. Can I get your number? So I can text you about the house?"

"Oh, yeah." Louis finds a scrap of paper and a pen under the counter and quickly scribbles his number down. "There you go. Um, are you sure you don't want to look at the house before you move in? Not that there's anything wrong with it," he adds quickly. "It's a long way out of the town centre, that's all. In the middle of nowhere, really."

Harry shrugs. "I don't mind. I just need somewhere to live. Somewhere quiet is fine."

"I'm not a very quiet housemate," Louis says. "I mean- Is that a problem?"

Harry shakes his head. "No, no problem. I mean, I might need to study. Or, or not. But I could go to the library."

Louis' curiosity is well and truly piqued now. Students don't generally live anywhere near where his house is; it's too far away, too isolated from anything unless you have a car or the desire to spend an hour on the slowest bus in the country each way. He tells Harry this, not wanting him to find out later and blame Louis for deceiving him.

Harry, though, doesn't seem worried. "I have a car," he says. "I will do, anyway. Next week. Hopefully. Then I won't have to catch the bus." He seems to remember, then, and glances at the clock. "I need to go."

Louis looks too. Quarter past five. "Yeah. You'll be ok, though, it's not that much of a walk. And with the roadworks outside the town hall, your bus'll probably be late anyway."

Harry's mouth quirks. "Thanks," he says dryly. "I hope not." He hands over some notes.

"Your mum won't tell you off that much, will she?" Louis teases as he rings up the sale. “If you’re late?”

Harry looks down, fingers picking distractedly at the bag containing his new phone, and the change in mood is so palpable Louis can practically taste it in the air. "Um, no. No. I, um, don't live with my parents now. But no, she'd be ok. I think. I should go."

"Ok," Louis says, slightly bewildered by Harry's reaction to what he thought was an innocuous comment. "Text me, yeah? So I can tidy up a bit. Unless you've changed your mind about moving in."

"I haven't," Harry says immediately. "I won't. You don't need references or anything like that, do you? All the agencies I tried wanted pay slips and references and things I don't really have."

"Can you pay the rent?" Louis waits for Harry to nod. "Well, that's all I need. Although I'd appreciate a bit of washing up every now and then, because I'm terrible at housework. But no, it's ok. Just don't screw me over, please. I need the rent."

"And I need somewhere to live." Louis is fascinated by Harry's smile; fleeting and fragile. "So we're perfect for each other."

"Definitely." Louis shoes him towards the door. "Go on, don't miss that bus. Text me next week when you know what you're doing and we'll sort everything out, ok?"

"Ok," Harry says, and he hesitates like he wants to say something else, and Louis waits, waits for the words to come, but they don't, and then Harry is gone and Louis is left standing in the doorway with the rain sleeting in along with the lingering aroma of stale chips and urine that pervades the arcade.

He grins to himself.

_Found a housemate_ , he texts Zayn when he's locked up the shop. _Don't think he's a serial killer_.

_He's going to murder you in your sleep_ , Zayn sends back when Louis is putting on his jacket and getting ready to go. _Get the rent money off him first_.

Louis doesn't bother replying to that. For the first time in a while, he leaves work happy.


	2. Chapter 2

"You know there's going to be something wrong with him, right?" Zayn says as soon as Louis has finished telling him about his new housemate on Saturday morning. "There's got to be something wrong with him."

"There's nothing _wrong_ with him," Louis says grumpily, because it's been a long and trying week and it annoys him that he only works with Zayn at the weekends and on Tuesdays. The other two days he's stuck with Rachel - who Louis privately thinks has more hair extensions than brain cells - and she spends most of her time texting her mum and her boyfriend and pointedly ignoring Louis. Louis doesn't mind, as such, but it gets boring when he has no one to talk to during the day. “I know him. You know him.”

Zayn doesn't mind his grumpiness, either, or at least pretends he doesn't. "We knew him for a few weeks three years ago. Did you get a month's rent off him in advance?"

"Shit, no." Louis runs through the conversation he actually had with Harry in his head. "I just thought- Shit."

"It's different this time, man," Zayn says gently. "It's not like having a mate move in, yeah. You don't know him. Not really."

"Like being a _mate_ helped me last time," Louis replies waspishly and an awkward silence settles over the conversation as they both pretend to be fascinated by the boxes and boxes of promotional material HQ has sent them for a new handset.

Eventually Louis offers, "He hasn't texted me yet. He might have done a runner."

Zayn nods, acknowledging the apology behind the words. "Probably on a ferry to Spain by now."

"With what, a pay as you go phone? It's not like he robbed the till." Louis scrubs a hand over his face. He hadn't had time to shave that morning and he’s just hoping no one from HQ is going to come round to audit them today because they've already had one curt memo about appropriate grooming for a customer-facing role. "I can't ask him for it now. Can I? I don't know."

Zayn rolls his eyes. "How badly do you need the money?"

Louis thinks of the two tins of baked beans and the borderline-mouldy loaf of bread in his kitchen cupboards. "Very,” he admits. “If he doesn't move in I'll have to start eating leaves or something. And don't even think about telling me to move, Malik. I'm not living in town."

"Never said a word," Zayn says amiably.

"You were thinking it loudly. Stop it." Louis adroitly slits the parcel tape of the last box of fliers and starts unpacking them. "I like where I live."

"You used to like living in town," Zayn points out.

"I used to like living in _a_ town. Not this one."

“It’s not that bad.”

“It’s not that good.” There's a certain sense of satisfaction in stamping on the empty box to flatten it down. "I'm going to make a cup of tea; want one?"

Zayn nods and Louis knows he didn’t mean anything by his words but it still stings a bit. Louis' only twenty-one but he feels older, sometimes, like life's starting to slip away from him, pass him by. He stares at the wall in the stockroom and waits for the kettle to boil and tries not to acknowledge the sudden, horrible wave of despair that washes over him. He doesn’t want to be fifty years old and still stuck here, his life pissed away in UHT milk and amazing summer handset deals.

"You going out tonight?" Zayn asks when Louis comes back with his tea. The shop is empty apart from a girl of about fourteen browsing the rack of cheap handsets. She doesn’t look like a shoplifter but she doesn’t look like someone who’s actually going to buy a phone either so Louis ignores her.

"Where?" he asks.

Zayn sips his tea appreciatively. "Alisa wanted to try that new club on the high street,” he says.

"It's not new.Tell your girlfriend that a paint job and a new sign do not make it new. You need more than paint to cover up the vomit on the walls, anyway."

Zayn snorts. "It's not that bad."

"Don’t start. It is that bad."

"Ok, it's that bad. But it's cheap and it doesn't have that bouncer you pissed off last time at Embrace."

"He started it," Louis says defensively. Zayn says nothing, just drinks his tea until Louis sighs theatrically and says, "Fine. Fine. What time?"

"Half seven, in the Rose and Crown. Alisa’s bringing a few of her mates.”

“I’ll see you at eight.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Fine. I know you need the time to do your hair.”

“Fuck off,” Louis says cheerily, and goes to help the woman who’s just walked in. There’s something about her that says she’s someone who can be persuaded to spend a lot of money on a phone and, as usual, Louis’ instincts don’t let him down. Twenty minutes later he’s bagging up her new phone, his cheerful smile made a lot easier by the three figures he’s just added to this month’s return and the fact that Zayn is stuck with a harassed mother with a sulky teenager and screaming toddler in tow.

_Don’t say a fucking word_ , Zayn mouths when he sees Louis looking. Louis gives him a cheery thumbs-up and goes to make another cup of tea. He finds a packet of biscuits Rachel must have brought in at the back of the cupboard and they’re even still in date; Louis doesn’t feel remotely guilty about opening them since Rachel had once eaten an entire bag of Haribo Louis had stashed behind a stack of employee guides and then tried to blame the disappearance of said bag on a stray cat.

He takes the biscuits out for Zayn, once the woman and her children have gone. Zayn is leaning against the counter, looking like he needs something stronger than tea to drink. “All right?” Louis asks.

“That,” Zayn says, taking his tea from Louis, “Was a nightmare. You’re looking after the next screaming toddler. You’re good with kids.”

“So are you.”

“You’re better.”

Louis sips his own tea. He thinks the milk might be going off but it’s hard to tell with UHT. One day management might actually spring for a fridge so they can have proper milk but Louis isn’t holding out too much hope on that front. Even their kettle was only purchased after months of pleading. “Did she buy anything?”

“One of them pink fluffy cases.” Zayn pulls a face. “The ones where the fluffy bits start to fall out after a week.”

“It worries me that you know that.”

“One of Alisa’s mates got one, yeah. You think I’m going to buy something like that?”

Louis smirks. “Got to spend your discount on something. You could save a whole 50p on one of them cases.”

Zayn throws a pen at him. His aim is good but Louis’ reflexes are faster and he easily avoids it, managing not to spill his tea too. Zayn flips him off, and disappears into the stockroom, muttering about a smoke break, and that sets Louis off thinking again about Harry. His new housemate. Maybe. He hasn’t actually asked if Harry smokes. He hasn’t really asked Harry anything and he curses his own weakness for green eyes and a killer smile and whatever it is about Harry that turns his brain to mush.

Maybe Harry won’t text, he thinks. Maybe it’s all some elaborate joke on Harry’s part. Maybe Louis’ attempt at subtle flirting was nothing like as subtle as he thought. It’s not a pleasant thought, that Harry might have been making fun of his obvious desperation. Louis doesn’t much like the cold, sick feeling he gets thinking about that. He swears under his breath and kicks the counter, hard, but it doesn’t make it any better.

“You need to get laid,” Zayn says when he comes back from his smoke break.

Louis smiles apologetically at the middle-aged man whose new phone case he’s ringing up. “There you go, Sir. I’m sorry about our new trainee. He hasn’t worked out how to speak appropriately in front of customers yet”

The man mumbles something, grabs the bag from Louis, and scuttles for the door as fast as his legs can carry him.

“Well done,” Louis says to Zayn. “He could have been this year’s mystery shopper.”

“Nah.” Zayn perches on the counter, entirely unrepentant. “You can spot them a mile off. And you know I’m right, man. How long has it been?”

“I’m just … on a sabbatical.”

“Right.” Zayn is openly laughing at him now. Louis kicks him.

Zayn’s right though. He needs to get drunk. Needs to get laid. Needs to do something to slake the restless itch under his skin, the relentless need for something more than he has right now. Louis thinks a night out might be exactly what he’s looking for.

***

Her name is Marie. Or Mary. Or maybe Charlotte: Louis can vaguely remember being introduced but that was three hours and seven pints ago and he’s having trouble remembering his own name let alone the name of the blonde girl pressing her tits against his arm and shouting into his ear. Louis can’t make out a word over the music but he nods every now and again and she seems happy enough with that and that’s…enough. Safe, maybe.

The music’s shit. Louis is remembering why he hates this club, which - despite Zayn’s claims to the contrary - is still the same shit club in every way Louis remembers. Apart from the odd group of students - and Louis - it’s mostly full of underage girls and forty-something men. His feet still stick to the floor when he goes to the bar. The dancefloor is still - inexplicably - sprinkled with shards of broken glass even though the drinks come in plastic cups. His lungs are still full of the cloying stench of cheap aftershave and stale sweat. It’s midnight and Louis wants to go home, and it’s ridiculous, it is. He’s twenty-one; he should be having a good time, buzzing on the life and the energy and the alcohol in his blood. Right now, though, he’d almost take a day at work over this.

“Going for a piss,” he mouths to Marie. She pouts at him a bit but doesn’t try to stop him as he finishes what’s left of his pint and heads off in the general direction of the toilets. She’s nearly as miserably drunk as he is but he thinks she probably knows he isn’t interested. If he’s lucky she’ll have moved on before he gets back. She’s a friend of Alisa’s - he thinks - and he doesn’t want to piss her off too much.

Louis takes a second to scan the room: he’s looking for Zayn, really. He knows there’s no way Zayn will be on the dancefloor and normally Louis can find him tucked away in a corner somewhere, ready to be dragged into whatever mischief Louis feels like making. There’s no sign of him tonight though. Louis can see Alisa dancing in a circle of her friends so he hasn’t left; he’s just…not around. And Louis doesn’t need the jarring reminder that Zayn and Alisa are pretty much the only people he knows, for all he’s been living here ever since he moved out of his mum’s house. There was a time he was the life and soul of the party, every bit as dissolute as his teachers at school used to accuse him of being, but, yeah, he doesn’t need to remember that, not now, not when the alcohol is fizzing in his blood, making him maudlin, airbrushing the past. He starts moving again, gets jostled. Beer spills on his leg.

“Shit, sorry!”

Louis waves his hand at the guy who’s bumped into him; the universal gesture of _it’s fine, don’t worry about it_. Even though it’s the time of night when fights can break out for less, he seems friendly enough. Tall and rangy, a mop of dark hair. Cute. Louis smiles, more genuinely, using the excuse of moving out of the way of some girls to push a little closer.

“You ok?” the guy asks. They’re close enough that he doesn’t have to shout, close enough that Louis can feel the heat of him against his arm. He’s glad now that he decided to wear his red shirt, the one Alisa says makes him look good, makes his eyes stand out.

“Yeah, I think so,” Louis looks down, as if checking on his dampened jeans, just so he can then look up again. Louis can practically hear Zayn’s voice. Fluttering your eyelashes, babe. It works, though. Louis sees the guy’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly, the whole-body shiver that goes through him when Louis brushes his hand against his arm, the blush Louis can see despite the dim lighting.

“I, um, should get another drink. You want one?”

Louis shakes his head, grinning. “I’m going outside. Come if you want.”

He doesn’t bother looking back to see what effect his innuendo has: the guy will either pick up on the double meaning or not, and Louis isn’t stupid enough to push too hard when he doesn’t know what reaction he’s going to get. It’s the kind of club where fights break out because someone may or may not have looked at someone else’s girlfriend a little too long, or someone’s girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend’s girlfriend has sent a nasty text. He shoulders his way through the crowd, heading for the corridor that leads to the toilets.

The music, mercifully, is marginally quieter out here, though not by much, and it’s still crowded. It’s harder to breathe too; every time the door of the ladies’ toilets opens a fresh tsunami of cheap perfume and hairspray is unleashed. Louis patiently makes his way around the queue for the ladies, around the bouncers stood over a man curled up in the foetal position outside the mens’ toilets, and finally, finally breaks out into empty space, the crowd left behind as he keeps walking down the corridor, round the corner, down a couple of steps.

It’s darker here, illuminated only by a single unshaded bulb. The floor is worn, scuffed linoleum, laid when the building first went up and never replaced. The music is just a distant hum now, a muted counterpoint to the beating of his heart. Louis leans against the wall, closes his eyes, counts to ten, smiles to himself as he hears the quiet footsteps.

“Wondered where you were going.”

“Outside, like I said,” Louis says. “Wanted some quiet.”

He feels rather than sees the distance between them close. “Is that right?”

“Oh yeah,” Louis says, as a hand settles first on his shoulder and then slides to the nape of his neck. “I love quiet, me.”

“Should keep you quiet,” the guy mutters and, yeah, ok, that annoys Louis, but he ruthlessly suppresses his annoyance. He’s here, he’s hard and, by the feel of the solid bulge under his hand, he’s with someone who wants to get off just as much as he does. He opens his eyes, just a little.

“How’re you going to do that then?”

“How do you think?” The hand tightens its grip on his neck and Louis hisses, shoves him away.

“Hey! I’m going.”

The guy huffs a little but he backs off, to Louis’ relief. He thinks he could probably take him - he’s tall but there’s not much to him, now that Louis comes to look. Louis does a mental recalculation, weighs up his options, and the chances of either going home horny and frustrated versus trying to find someone else at this time of it to work out his frustration with, and decides to make the most of a bad situation. He gets his hands on the guy’s biceps, pushes him back against the opposite wall, and gets his belt unfastened and trousers open with ruthless efficiency.

“Wait…” the guy says weakly, batting at Louis’ hands.

Louis stops. “Do you want this fucking blowjob or not?” he demands impatiently.

The guy flushes a dark, angry red. Louis is kind of sick of him now, and angry at himself, and just wanting to get off right now, thanks. “Yeah- Yes.”

“Good.” Louis drops to his knees, getting his own jeans undone as he goes, and then-

-no way. _No_.

Louis has his standards and this guy doesn’t meet any of them. By the smell - a smell strong enough to make Louis gag - he hasn’t washed in weeks. There is no way that’s going in his mouth. Louis goes from hard and wanting to soft and faintly nauseated in a heartbeat. He’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“What’re you doing?” the guy mumbles. “Get on with it.”

“Fuck that,” Louis says shortly, pushing himself up to his feet again. He needs a shower. Or some bleach. He takes a step back, puts some distance between them. “Look, it’s not you.” A lie. “I just… I don’t feel very well.” Not so much of a lie. “I might just go home.”

And then, just when Louis thinks the situation can’t get any more ridiculous and pathetic, the guy bursts into tears.

“Oh fuck… Seriously, I just-”

Louis stops. He doesn’t have the words for this and he’s just tired and he wants out.

“Look, it didn’t work out, ok. It’s fine. I’m sure you’ll meet someone who, um. Yeah.”

The tears are not stopping. The guy slowly slumps down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, legs splayed out at angles that don’t look comfortable, and Louis really doesn’t know what to do, until it doesn’t matter any more because a bouncer comes round the corner to find out what the noise is and Louis seizes the opportunity he’s been handed and runs for the fire door at the end of the corridor. The bouncer shouts after him but Louis ignores him, slamming his hand against the emergency release and launching himself out into the night before the bouncer can come after him.

He’s laughing as he runs down the alleyway that leads back to the main road, high on adrenaline and the last lingering buzz of alcohol. He doesn’t stop running until he hits the road, and then he halts in a shop doorway that smells of vomit and urine and pulls out his phone to fire off a quick text to Zayn to let him know he’s gone and that’s when he sees the text notification waiting for him. Unknown number.

Louis frowns, and taps on the message.

_Need 2 move earlier than i thought, on bus now, harry_

There’s a second text, also from Harry. Louis frowns some more.

_Is that ok? If it’s a problem it’s ok sorry I should have asked_

And a third text:

_Bus gets in at 2.30am i can sleep at the station though_

Louis glances at the clock on his phone. 2am. _Don’t bother_ , he sends back. _I’ll walk down & we’ll get a taxi_.

Harry answers him in less than a minute. _You’re still awake?_

Louis laughs mirthlessly to himself before he realises that it makes him look insane. Even though the only witnesses to his insanity are a couple of pigeons and a homeless man in the doorway opposite. _Another shit Saturday night_ , he tells Harry. _Tell u about it later. Maybe_

_I’ll look forward to it_ , Harry replies.

Louis shakes his head, goes over to give a couple of quid to the homeless man, and sets off for the bus station. With any luck, he reasons, he can split the taxi fare with his new housemate so, even if Harry does turn out to be a serial killer, at least he’ll die at home.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry is taller again than Louis remembers, though he isn’t sure whether that’s the lingering drunkenness or the poor lighting in the bus station. Harry’s waiting for him outside the travel centre, hands tucked in his jacket pocket, a rucksack at his feet.

“Where’s the rest of your stuff?” Louis blurts out.

Harry shrugs, and bends down to pick up the rucksack. Louis stares stupidly at the line of his back. “I didn’t have a lot of stuff and, like, I can buy what I need anyway. It doesn’t matter.”

“Right.” Louis gives himself a mental slap. “Ok, yeah, we should get a taxi. Or we’ll be stuck here all night.”

Harry looks around and Louis wonders if he’s reconsidering his decision to move here. The bus station isn’t exactly the best introduction to the town, though it does look better in the dark than it does in daylight, when it’s harder to see the graffiti and the drains choked with cigarette ends. “Yeah, ok.”

“If we walk down to Church Street there’re usually taxis.”

Harry nods, slinging his rucksack onto his shoulder as he falls in at Louis’ side. Louis suddenly has absolutely no idea what to say. Harry is moving in with him and he knows next to nothing about him.

"Good journey?" _Idiot_.

"Yeah, it was ok," Harry says agreeably. "Like, the bus stopped for ages in this lay-by and the driver got off for a bit and no one really knew why. And I thought maybe we'd broken down but he got back on and went off and didn't say anything and we got here ten minutes early so maybe he was just trying to lose some time."

Louis blinks. "Um, ok."

"What about you?" Harry asks. "Good night?"

Louis laughs hollowly. "I thought it was obvious from the text it wasn't."

"Sorry," Harry says immediately.

"No, it's ok. Not your fault." Louis kicks at an empty can lying on the pavement, sending it skittering across the road. "Just- It was just one of those nights."

"Right."

"My own fault for going clubbing with Zayn. You remember Zayn, right?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. He lives here?”

“He’s at uni here. His girlfriend and her mates love going to these shitty clubs and somehow I end up agreeing to go too."

"Ok."

Harry doesn't say anything else but Louis doesn't mind. The town's so empty; Louis loves it when it's like this, quiet and still, the darkness softening its harsh edges. He knows it won't last because within ten minutes or so everyone who has just been kicked out of the three town centre clubs is going to come walking down the hill behind them, that time of night when the thin veneer of civilisation is stripped away to leave nothing but the most primeval urges in their place. Fight or fuck, and Louis isn't exactly in the mood for anything any more except a nice hot shower and a date with his own right hand before blissful sleep intervenes.

A police car goes past, the two officers inside eyeing them suspiciously. Louis gives them a cheerful smile.

"Come on," he tells Harry. "With any luck we won't have to wait for a taxi."

They don't. The taxi rank is outside an abandoned, boarded-up cinema that closed long before Louis' time, and its sheer isolation from most of its prospective customers means that at this time of night the cabbies are standing around the second cab in line, chatting. Louis spares another cheerful grin for the cabbie stubbing out his cigarette and eyeing them, guessing - correctly, it turns out - that this is the driver of the first cab in line. He tries not to overdo it, not wanting the man to think he's so drunk he might vomit in the back.

"Come on," he says. "Do you need to put that bag in the boot or are you ok with it on your lap?"

Harry seems frozen for a moment, like he's not sure of what to do next, and then he comes back from wherever he went and shakes his head. "No, I can hold it. It's not heavy."

They get into the back of the taxi and Louis gives the driver his address. Their address. "Got any cash on you?" he hisses to Harry.

"Twenty quid?"

"That'll do." He settles back in his seat and fumbles with the seatbelt. He doesn't particularly want to die in the back of a taxi and the local drivers take a relaxed view to things like speed limits and traffic law. "Put your seatbelt on."

He's expecting conversation - questions - from the driver. He'd ask questions, in the man's position, because he and Harry must look like the strangest pair. But for whatever reason the man is quiet, although Louis can see him watching them in his mirror, more often than Louis is entirely comfortable with.

"I'm really sorry for arriving in the middle of the night," Harry says suddenly. "I didn't plan it that way. Like, I meant to arrive during the day."

"That's ok." Louis grips onto the door handle as the car accelerates. He hates being a passenger. "Probably good timing."

"If it's a problem, I can- I can sleep in the garden or something."

"Harry, I said it's ok." Louis leans over to gently poke Harry's arm. "Don't worry about it. It's not a problem. Unless you want a signed photo of me or something. Or if you're a serial killer."

"What?"

"Forget it." Louis curses his tiredness. "Forget I said anything."

"You still think I'm a serial killer?"

In the dark it's hard to make out much of Harry's facial expression and his voice is flat but Louis thinks he hears a touch of sarcasm there so he smiles and says, "You mean you aren't?"

He's called it right. He can hear the grin in Harry's voice. "Not this week."

"That's good then," he says weakly.

Harry laughs openly this time. "Yeah, it is. Have you lived with a serial killer before?"

Louis grimaces and then realises that Harry can't see his expression. "No, but my last housemate did steal five hundred quid off me and move out in the middle of the night so, yeah. If you're going to steal anything please take the wicker donkey my neighbour brought back from Spain this summer, ok?"

Harry is quiet for a moment, and then he says, "That's shit; I'm sorry."

"The wicker donkey? Tell me about it. I didn’t even know you could buy anything that tacky. You should see the shit she has in her house."

"No, the stealing money thing. Did you go to the police?"

"No." And Louis really doesn't want to go into this; he hasn't even really discussed it with Zayn since it happened, mostly because Zayn has strong views on what Louis should have done and Louis hasn't felt inclined to listen to what sounds suspiciously like sense. "No, I didn't."

"Why not?" Harry asks curiously.

Louis doesn't answer right away. The taxi is leaving the town now, on a road where the streetlights are further apart and the pavements have given way to grass verges and hedges. It's none of Harry's business, not really, but maybe it needs to be, he thinks. If Harry's going to move in. "We were friends," he says eventually, reluctantly. "I owed him. Or I thought I did. I don't know."

“It’s not ok to steal from you,” Harry says stubbornly.

Louis glances to the front and says, "The turn's coming up, mate. Just after that postbox." And yes, he’s avoiding the issue and trying to close it down but he really doesn’t want to open up that whole can of worms.

Perhaps realising that Louis doesn’t want to talk about it any more and it’s time to change the subject, Harry says, "You really do live in the middle of nowhere.”

"Regretting it?"

Harry shakes his head. "No. I said I didn't mind peace and quiet, didn't I?"

"Don't expect too much of that." Louis fumbles for his wallet. "Between my next door neighbour yakking on and the fucking owl that lives in the woods behind, you'll get plenty of noise."

“Do you get on with your neighbour?” Harry asks curiously.

“Yeah, don’t worry, you’re not walking into the middle of a feud.” Louis snorts at the thought. “No, she’s nice. She’s been really nice to me, she’s just got really bad taste in, well, everything. And she sunbathes topless in summer.”

Going by the half-choked laugh, that isn’t an enticing prospect for Harry and Louis mentally files that in the _interesting_ box. He has no idea whether Harry’s gay or not and he’s not going to try and find out before Harry has even got his own set of house keys. He’s had enough disaster for one night. And he _really_ needs the rent money.

“Not much out here, is there?” the taxi driver says as he takes the next turn. There are no streetlights so far out and the road ahead is illuminated only be the car headlights.

“No,” Louis says shortly. “Watch out for the next bend, it’s tighter than it looks.”

The taxi driver grunts like he’s paying attention and then completely fails to brake enough for the corner; Louis ends up pressed against the door and Harry lurches against him, a sudden firm weight and warm cinnamon scent. Louis groans and tries to surreptitiously adjust himself as Harry scrabbles back to his own side of the car, apologising.

“It’s ok,” Louis says, cutting across him. “No harm done.” He says it slightly louder than he needs to, slightly more cutting than it needs to be, since it’s not aimed at Harry. “These roads can be tricky when you don’t know them.”

He doesn’t get a rise out of the taxi driver but he knows his shot has gone home because the next bend is taken at a considerably slower speed. The rest of their journey is almost pleasant, and Louis feels calm by the time the car pulls up in front of his house.

“Sixteen pounds twenty.”

“I’ll get it,” Harry says immediately, fumbling for his wallet.

“We’re going halves, yeah?” Louis produces a ten pound note. “Here, give me that twenty and you take the ten. Now we’re even.”

Harry’s hand hovers in midair, touching but not taking the note. “That’s not half.”

“Near enough,” Louis says exasperatedly. “Take the money, Harry. Don’t make me slap you.”

Harry takes the note. “Ok,” he says meekly. “Sorry.”

Louis feels bad about it straight away - more than bad, because Harry seems genuinely upset by Louis snapping at him. He doesn’t know how to deal with the way Harry just stands there when they get out of the car and the taxi pulls away, so he forces some cheer into his voice and waves expansively at the small row of terraced houses and the single, solitary streetlight they’re standing beneath.

“Here we are. What do you think?”

“It’s nice,” Harry says quietly. “Which one’s yours?”

“The one on the end.” Louis points it out. “The one next to it, that’s Angela, the one I told you about, and the one on the other end is Mr Carson; he’s about ninety.”

“And that’s it?”

“And that’s it.” Louis turns to look at Harry and for the first time tonight he can see him clearly, his features thrown into stark illumination by the streetlight above. “Changed your mind now you’ve seen it? Trust me, it looks better in daylight when you can see the fields and stuff.”

“No.” Harry shakes his head. “No, it looks great. Exactly what I was looking for. Who owns the fields?”

“No idea. They’ve been fallow since I moved here. There’s a footpath across that one, that takes you down to the river. It’s all right on a nice day, if you like that sort of thing.”

“I do like that sort of thing,” Harry says, very seriously, and again Louis isn’t sure whether he’s joking or not.

“Great, well, let’s get inside and we can get to bed.” Louis stops, realising what he’s said. “I mean, in separate beds, obviously. There are two bedrooms.”

Harry smiles; Louis is fascinated by the play of shadows across his dimples. “I guessed that from the ad. Like, it’d be a bit cosy if there was only one bedroom.”

“Cosy but warm in winter,” Louis agrees. “Come on, I’m freezing and starving.”

He realises, when he’s unlocking the door, that he still doesn’t actually have much food in, and he tells Harry as much as Harry is putting his rucksack down in the narrow hallway and taking off his jacket.

“There’s some bread though. We could have toast.”

“Toast is good,” Harry says at once.

Louis takes him through into the tiny kitchen. “There’s not much room anywhere in this house,” he says apologetically. “And the ceilings are low. It’s not too bad down here but just watch your head when you’re going up the stairs.”

Harry pokes a finger at the layer of encrusted grease on the cooker but doesn’t say anything. Louis feels suddenly both embarrassed by his own lack of housekeeping skills and annoyed at himself for caring.

“The bathroom is downstairs, through that door there. There’s like an inner porch and the bathroom’s on the left. Want to see the rest of the house?”

“Ok,” Harry says quickly.

Louis takes him through into the living room - his favourite part of the house, with its stone fire surround and exposed beams to the ceiling. Going by Harry’s expression, he likes it too. Louis shows him how the electric fire works and how to pull the curtains closed without trapping one of the curtains in the narrow gap between the rail and the wall, and then he takes him upstairs.

“There’s only my room on this floor,” he explains. “Yours is up in the attic. The stairs are really steep, so just watch it in the morning. Try not to fall down.”

“I’ll try my best,” Harry says solemnly. “I’ll take my bag up and then see what food there is, yeah?”

“Yeah, ok. I’m going to take a shower but I won’t be long. The light switch is on the left as you go up the stairs.”

Harry disappears up to the attic, while Louis heads back downstairs and into his tiny bathroom. It’s a relief to strip out of his clothes and jump into the shower, eking out what remains of his shower gel to scrub himself clean. He hears Harry come back downstairs, and then go back upstairs again, and it feels strange to listen to someone else moving around in the house again. He’s grown used to the silence in a way he thought he never would but he tells himself it’s just the change that has him unsettled.

And, despite his earlier experience, hard.

Louis resolutely pushes all thoughts of the guy in the club out of his head and mentally rifles through his usual fantasy scenarios. Something quick, functional, something that will get him off before Harry comes back downstairs - and, ok, Harry walking in on him was maybe _not_ something he needed to think about because, yeah, his dick likes that idea even if his brain is yelling that fantasising about his new housemate is the first step on a long and painful road to disaster.

Louis was never much good at impulse control though.

When he comes out of the bathroom, towel slung around his hips and his shirt barely fastened, Harry is in the kitchen and Louis immediately starts to wonder just how thin the wall between the bathroom and the kitchen really is and whether Harry heard anything. Harry, though, is turned away, opening a tin of beans.

“Find some food?” Louis asks, hoping like hell that his voice doesn’t betray the fact he’s just wanked off thinking about Harry catching him at it.

Harry gives him a quick glance over his shoulder. “Yeah. Um, you really don’t have much food. It’s Pot Noodle with beans. The bread was green.”

Louis scrubs at his damp hair, embarrassed. “Yeah, I keep forgetting to buy it. Not a big cook. Want a cup of tea? No, wait, there’s no tea either.”

“Can I have a glass of water?”

“That I can do.” Louis retrieves a glass that’s mostly clean and fills it from the tap. “What more do you need?”

“A trip to the shops,” Harry says dryly. “There’s only one more tin of beans, after this.” He starts looking around for a saucepan. Louis gets one for him.

“There’s one 24-hour shop and that’s fifteen minutes drive away and I’m drunk and you’re not insured on my car,” Louis points out. “I think we’re stuck with what we’ve got, at least until tomorrow. Anyway, I thought you had a car.”

Harry fumbles with the hob, until Louis shows him how to spark it once the gas is turned on. Harry gives him a smile for that. “I, um, yeah. I thought I was going to have one before. Before I moved. But I didn’t. So I got the bus. Don’t you even have cereal?”

“I get one of those cereal bars on my way to work,” Louis says. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not changing the subject,” Harry says, but his ears are red and he’s very deliberately not looking at Louis as he stirs the beans. “That’s not a proper breakfast.”

“I’m twenty-one,” Louis says exasperatedly. “I’m in the prime of life. I’ll embrace healthy eating when I hit thirty. Please don’t tell me you’re one of those people who spend hours boiling up vegetables.”

“No one spends hours boiling vegetables.” Harry flicks the gas off and lifts the saucepan off the hob. “Have you got any plates?”

Half a Pot Noodle and half a tin of beans isn’t even the strangest meal Louis’ ever eaten but it feels weird to sit at the tiny breakfast bar - there’s no room in his kitchen for a table - with someone who’s both a virtual stranger and also - in a way Louis doesn’t really understand - someone he feels like he’s known all his life. It’s just easy to be to Harry, like they’ve been friends for years. Harry _gets_ him, in a way Louis isn’t used to, and it’s just nice. Comfortable. It’s been a while since there was anything in Louis’ life that felt nice.

“What time is it?” Harry asks when they’re done eating.

Louis squints at the wall clock. “Nearly four. We should get some sleep.”

“Ok.” Harry stands up and takes Louis’ plate. “I’ll just do the dishes.”

Louis looks at him in disbelief. “Are you serious? It’s four am. The plates can wait until tomorrow.”

Harry blushes, looks down, shuffling awkwardly. “What about those?” he says, gesturing at the sink, piled high with all the washing up Louis hasn’t been doing all week.

“It’s still four am. They can wait.” Louis takes their plates off Harry and puts them on the counter. “If you like washing up, fine. Great. But not at four am, yeah? You can do it tomorrow.”

“Ok,” Harry says, still looking down. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Or don’t do it at all. What’s a bit of mould? It’s penicillin, right?”

Harry half-smiles at that, which is a victory as far as Louis is concerned. “Yeah.”

“Ok.” Louis lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a shower if you want. It’s either hot or freezing cold, only two settings. You have to kind of balance the hot and cold but you’ll get the hang of it. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

He doesn’t wait for Harry’s reply; he’s getting cold in his towel and it’s good to head upstairs, put the fan heater on in his bedroom for a couple of minutes to get the room toasty warm, and then slide into bed, snug in the layers of blankets that are infinitely cheaper than putting the heating on.

Louis’ almost asleep when he hears it, the tell-tale sound of the kitchen tap running, the clink of crockery. Harry’s doing the washing-up. Lying in the darkness, Louis grins to himself. His new housemate’s an idiot but that’s ok: Louis’ fairly sure serial killers don’t do the washing up before killing their victims. In the morning he’ll tease Harry for his outburst of domesticity, but for now, sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Louis wakes up with the sun. Not through choice; in his drunken state he'd forgotten to draw the curtains before he went to bed and his window faces east, perfectly placed to catch the early morning rays. It's just his luck, too, that it's a nice day, the sky clear and blue. Louis groans and tries to hide his head under the pillow but it's too late, he's awake, and thirsty, and needing to piss. Grumbling to himself, he rolls out of bed and stumbles downstairs to the bathroom and he's completely forgotten he has a housemate now until he comes back into the kitchen and Harry is standing at the counter, rooting around in the cutlery drawer.

"Hi," Louis croaks. Harry looks round and immediately goes bright red and Louis realises that maybe he should have put something on. "Um, sorry."

"It's ok." Harry clears his throat and looks away.

"I should have, um, yeah." Louis stops and tries again. "I forgot you'd moved in. Sorry."

"It's ok, like, really." Harry manages a smile this time. "I don't sleep in anything either, so, it's ok."

"I'll go and get dressed," Louis says, hoping he sounds more decisive than he feels. "What are you looking for?"

Harry shuts the drawer. "A spoon? I found some Weetabix in that cupboard and, like, I was going to have it for breakfast."

Louis frowns. "Yeah, I think that's about a year old, at least. Don't eat it." He reaches past Harry to pick up the box and check the expiration date. "It expired last year."

“That’s ok though, yeah? It looks ok.”

“You are not eating that,” Louis says flatly. “You’ve only just moved in; if you die, I have to find another housemate.”

“Thanks for the concern.”

“Just looking out for you.” Louis pats his arm and goes to throw the Weetabix in the bin. “We should probably go to the shops. The supermarket doesn’t open until ten though, and I have to be at work. There’s a little one I think opens at eight, if you want to get something?”

“Ok,” Harry agrees immediately. “That sounds good.”

“I’ll get dressed.” Louis gives Harry a stern look. “Do not eat anything.”

“Promise,” Harry says, very seriously.

Louis goes upstairs, debating whether to have a shave now or wait until they come back. He decides to leave it, even though it means he’s going to have to rush to be ready for work. He’s not sure whether it’s the late night or the alcohol but he’s starving and he could really, really do with a bacon sandwich and some coffee. He gets dressed as quickly as he can and grabs his phone and heads back downstairs, where Harry is sitting on the counter, drumming his heels against the cupboard door and humming under his breath.

“Ready?”

Harry nods and slides down. “I-I can drive, if you want.”

“You’re not insured on my car,” Louis points out. “I’m not having you drive it into a ditch. I’m fine.”

Harry looks away, hunching in on himself. “Sorry.”

Louis looks around for his car keys. “It’s ok,” he says. “No big deal.” He spots his keys, half-hidden under a pile of junk mail he’s been meaning to throw out for weeks. Most of it is addressed to a man who hasn’t lived in the house for at least ten years, as far as Louis knows, but still uses the address to sign up for things. “Let’s go.”

Once outside, Louis’ mood lifts. The sun is shining, the air is fresh, and it feels like one of those days when anything is possible. The car even starts first time, and watching Harry fold his long, long legs into Louis’ little Clio is one of the most amusing things Louis’ seen in a while.

“Put the seat back as far as you can,” he instructs Harry.

“I’m fine,” Harry says, clearly not fine.

“No, you’re not,” Louis says patiently. “If I crash the car and the airbag goes off, your knees are going to get introduced to your face. Put the seat back. That lever there.”

Harry reaches down, frowning in concentration as he fumbles with the lever. “It’s not moving.”

“You have to push the seat back at the same time, here, like this.” Harry squawks as the seat abruptly slides back and Louis grins to himself. “There you go,” he says, patting Harry’s arm. “Safe as you’ll ever be. Ready to go?”

Harry nods.

Louis can’t help glancing over at him occasionally during the drive, just to see his reaction to the countryside he hadn’t seen properly in the dark. He’s half-expecting Harry to announce he’s changed his mind, that he doesn’t want to live in the middle of nowhere. It’s hard to tell what Harry thinks; his face is turned away and Louis can’t read his expression. The silence in the car starts to get to Louis. He puts the radio on.

The silence instantly gets even more awkward. Louis can’t decide whether to turn the radio off, try and find another station, or just pretend nothing’s wrong. Harry takes the decision out of his hands by reaching out to turn the radio off.

“It’s a shit song,” he says apologetically.

“They’re a shit group,” Louis counters. “Not that I’m bitter or anything.”

That makes Harry smile. “That they went through and we didn’t?”

“I think we have a right to be bitter about that.”

And there it is, the treasure trove of memories Louis tries very hard to keep locked away. Sun, sea, and crushing disappointment. Even after all this time, he can still hear Simon Cowell’s voice:

_I’ve gone with my head. I’m sorry, boys; you’re going home_.

He’d been ready for rejection, resigned to it, expecting it from the moment they stood in front of Simon and the lens of a TV camera, but it had still hurt more than any physical pain he’d been in. Still gutted him to see Harry curled into a ball in his bed late into the night, sobbing as if his heart was broken. And maybe it was.

“You know Liam tried out again in 2011, right?” he says when it looks like Harry isn’t going to reply. “Didn’t you think about it?”

Harry shakes his head. "No."

"How come?"

There's a pause before Harry answers this time, like he's thinking through his response. "I just- It didn't seem like a good idea."

"Right." They're heading into the built-up area now and Louis slows down, not wanting to get another speeding ticket. "You were really good though. A star in the making, you know."

Harry blushes. "I was not."

"You were. Are." Louis slows down some more as he notices a police car parked up in the distance. He's definitely not taking any chances. "I thought it from the first moment I saw you."

Harry doesn't say anything to that. Louis sneaks another glance at him but Harry is looking out of the window again and Louis can't see enough of his face to judge his expression. Maybe he thinks Louis is being sarcastic, he thinks. Or maybe - Louis' heart sinks - maybe he's remembered, or grown tired of pretending he doesn't remember, how they went out of X Factor. For all Louis knows, Harry is humouring him until he can find somewhere else to live.

"Any favourite supermarket?" he asks. "Not that there's much choice. Not this time on a Sunday, unless you want to come back later. It's the Tesco Express, basically. But there's a Sainsburys too, a big one."

"How did Liam do?" Harry asks unexpectedly.

Louis blinks, thrown by the change of subject. "Um, he got through to live shows but he got voted off in the first week. Didn't you watch it?"

Harry just shakes his head and goes back to looking out of the window, which seems to be his favourite way of avoiding awkward topics.

"Shame," Louis says. "He was really good. I voted for him. But that girl group was always going to do it. Here we are, Tesco Express. So you wanted to concentrate on your A Levels, right?"

"Yeah," Harry says. Louis waits for him to expand on that but Harry remains stubbornly silent. Louis gives up; if Harry doesn't want to talk about X Factor and after-X Factor, Louis can understand that. And maybe it's for the best. Sunday morning - especially when Louis has a hangover he thinks is going to _really_ kick in within an hour or so - is not a good time for the kind of conversation they could have about X Factor. Louis concentrates on looking for a parking spot instead.

Harry doesn't say much as they're going round the supermarket either. He insists on pushing the trolley and then trails round after Louis, throwing in the odd item, but mostly seemingly content to follow Louis' lead. At the checkout he pushes a £10 note at Louis, more than enough for the things he's chosen.

"We'll have to work out a system for this," Louis tells him.

For some reason that actually makes Harry smile.

"What?" Louis demands.

Harry shakes his head, packing their shopping away in what Louis suspects is actually a system rather than just throwing everything in bags and hoping for the best like he usually does. "Nothing."

"Tell me."

"It's nothing." Harry shuffles his feet and looks embarrassed and it's only when they're back in the car with their shopping that he finally says, with the air of someone revealing some huge secret, "We talked about that."

"Talk about what?" Along with all the other memories, it's starting to come back to Louis how frustrating it is to get anything out of Harry. "What are you on about?"

"Living together," Harry says, and immediately goes bright red.

Louis thinks his cheeks are probably about the same colour because, yeah, he remembers that. The two of them sitting in a little hollow between two rocks - two kids, really, still oblivious, innocent - as the sun set over the sea, talking about everything and anything but mostly the future and what could be, and it hurts, really, to think about it, because every one of those dreams had been neatly and systematically destroyed the very next day.

"Well, here we are," Louis says, and immediately groans to himself. _Idiot_. "Not quite the same but we are housemates now. Just minus the fame and the money and the whole singing career thing. Almost as good."

Harry smiles, looking at him properly for the first time since they left the house. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Here we are."

Louis clears his throat. "Let's get home, yeah? I need some breakfast before work and I'll be in shit if I'm late." _Again_.

“I can cook you breakfast,” Harry says immediately.

“Really?”

Harry’s smile deepens. “Yeah. Really.”

“You,” Louis says firmly. “Are the best housemate ever. Let’s go.”

***

“So how weird is he?” Zayn asks after the first rush of Sunday morning shoppers has died down and they’re taking advantage of the lull to do not very much of anything.

“Who, Harry?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Yes, Harry.”

“We’ve been through this,” Louis points out. “You’ve met Harry. You know him.”

“Three years ago, yeah. He was like a little kid.”

“He wasn’t _that_ young,” Louis says, feeling oddly defensive even though part of him knows Zayn has a point. Harry was young when they’d been on X Factor, not just in years but in that odd innocence he’d carried with him, the easy trust he’d had in the goodness of others.

“Yeah, yeah.” Zayn is eyeing him in a way that it is far too knowing for Louis’ comfort. “He was sixteen.”

“Fuck off. He was old enough to be there.”

Zayn snickers. And just like that, Louis knows what’s different about Harry now, an epiphany that feels too big to think about right now when Zayn is watching him so closely.

“Anyway,” hes says, trying to tamp down on those thoughts. “He’s not weird. He’s just… he’s ok. He can cook.”

“Useful.”

“Very useful. He made me breakfast.” As soon as he says it Louis wants to snatch the words back, because Zayn is smirking again. “Not like _that_. It was not a morning-after breakfast.”

“No night of passion then?”

Louis gives him a glare. He’s already sketched out the details of his disastrous pick-up at the club the previous evening, not because Zayn had asked but because Louis needed to vent to someone about it and Zayn has had practice in listening to tales of disastrous pick-ups. “What do you think?”

Zayn starts opening a box of new promotional leaflets. “You can win stuff with these, you know,” he says, pulling out one of the leaflets and waving it at Louis. “An iPad and shit. We should fill some in.”

“We can’t enter, idiot. We work here.”

“You could put Harry’s name on. Now he’s moved in. Nothing that says he can’t enter. Why did he move in in the middle of the night?”

“Subtle, Malik. Really.” Louis grabs a pen and starts filling in the form. _Harry Edward Styles_. Address: his. It looks so…official, suddenly: Harry lives with him. “I don’t know. Maybe that was the only time he could get a bus. I haven’t asked.”

“You should.” Zayn pushes himself away from the counter and straightens up as the door opens and a couple wander in. “Something’s up with him.”

“And you can tell that even though you haven’t seen him,” Louis scoffs. “Still think he’s a serial killer?”

Zayn just shakes his head. “Something is not right with him. You’ll see.”

“Oh, Mystic Malik.” Louis grabs another leaflet and eyes the couple, now browsing the contract phones. “Just for that, these are mine.”

“They’re not gonna buy.”

Louis just shakes his head. “Leave it to the master. They will be walking out of here with a new phone. See you in ten minutes. And enough about Harry: I don’t care, ok?”

Zayn shakes his head again. “Oh, you do care.”

“Fuck off, do I.”

“Three years and you remembered his middle name. You care, Tommo.”

***

Zayn's words come back to Louis as he drives home that evening, radio crackling as it usually does when it rains. One day he’s going to be able to afford a less temperamental car but for now he has to endure the alarming screech every time he depresses the brake pedal and the gentle mist of rain coming through the faulty door seal. It probably isn't helping to contemplate the prospect of a house stripped bare, what little he owns gone along with Harry’s presence in his life. A month's rent in advance would be poor consolation for that and as his little car leaves the city behind Louis feels his mood darken along with the ominous-looking skies. Because he knows Zayn has a point: there’s something Harry isn’t saying and it could be bad or it could be very bad but either way Louis needs to know what it is because for whatever reason it matters to him.

Harry matters to him.

The house looks ok from the outside when Louis parks up. The light is on in the living room but the curtains are drawn so Louis can't see inside. Which means that Harry hasn't stolen his curtains, at least. Louis grabs his jacket from the back seat and makes a run for the door, half-hoping that Harry has left the door unlocked so he doesn’t have to stand in the rain trying to unlock it. Of course he hasn’t, and Louis has to fumble with the lock for an agonisingly lengthy time before he finally gets the thing to work.

The first thing he notices when he opens the door is that someone – Harry, obviously – has tidied up. Louis generally throws his shoes in a jumbled heap at the bottom of the stairs when he comes in but now they are all lined up neatly – in pairs – against the wall. Louis breathes out slowly, kicks off his trainers and drops his jacket on top of them, and goes into the living room.

Nothing seems to have been moved in there – there isn’t much to be moved – but Louis can smell something cooking and it smells so good Louis’ mouth starts to water. In a daze he pushes open the door to the kitchen and gets a lungful of that cooking smell, even better than before.

“Gah,” he manages, intelligently.

Harry, looking much more lanky and awkward than Louis remembers, is standing next to the oven Louis doesn’t use, stirring something in a saucepan.

“Um,” Louis manages.

“I thought I’d start dinner,” Harry says. He sounds unsure. “How’s your hangover?”

“Much better. That smells amazing.” Louis goes over to look at the contents of the saucepan. “What is it?”

“Just stuff we bought this morning,” Harry says. His cheeks are pinked and he won’t quite meet Louis’ eyes and Louis files that expression away for later reference. He’s never in his life knowingly bought anything that looks like the contents of the saucepan but he thinks it’s useful to know what Harry looks like when he lies. He wonders when Harry went out, how he got to the shops. There’s only one bus that goes up the lane and Louis doesn’t think it even runs on a Sunday.

“You didn’t have to cook,” he says.

“I don’t mind,” Harry says at once. “I like cooking and, um, I thought you’d want something to eat. When you got back from work.”

“I really do,” Louis admits. “Starving. And that smells a lot better than a Pot Noodle.”

“Hopefully it tastes better.”

“That wouldn’t be difficult.” Louis looks around. Harry’s tidied up the kitchen - and Louis is fairly sure he’s never owned any of the utensils on the draining board either. “Thanks for tidying up. It needed it.”

“I found twenty quid down the back of the breakfast bar,” Harry says, indicating the folded note sitting on the counter. “It must have slipped down.”

Louis moves to pick it up. “Right, yeah.” He can’t remember ever leaving any money there to have slipped down, which means it probably belongs to his last housemate and, yeah, Louis will happily spend it. Not that it makes up for the disappearing act but it’s something.

It’s probably his own money anyway.

“Can I do anything?” he asks, because he’s starting to feel useless just standing around while Harry cooks.

“Um, plates?”

“Plates I can do. Want a beer?” It’s been a long, long day and the thought of collapsing in front of the TV with a few beers is enticing. Especially now he _has_ some beer, thanks to their supermarket run.

Harry shakes his head. “No, thanks.”

“Sure? You’re old enough to drink legally now, you know,” Louis says teasingly.

Harry just shakes his head again, looking away. “I don’t really drink.”

Louis frowns. It’s not the not-drinking that bothers him, but the way Harry says it, the way Harry is suddenly tensed up and looking away. “Maybe I won’t,” he says. “After last night.”

Harry nods, still not looking at him. Louis doesn’t know what else to say and an awkward silence descends, broken only by Harry turning off the hob and reaching for the plates Louis has set out.

“Want me to lay the table?” Louis asks, desperate to do something, anything except stand uselessly in the corner watching Harry cook. He’s screwed up somehow - and he’s not really sure how but he wants to make it right.

Harry gives him a quick glance and he looks almost guilty, which makes no sense to Louis at all. “Sorry. I meant to do it.”

“It’s ok. I need something to do.” Louis smiles what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

Harry nods, seemingly intent on serving up. He’s quiet all through dinner, all through Louis enthusing about the food, all through Louis trying to lighten the mood by telling him increasingly outrageous stories about the worst customers they’ve ever had in the shop. Harry laughs dutifully but it feels forced, like he’s putting on an act for Louis.

“Want to watch TV for a bit?” Louis asks when they’re done and Harry is clearing away their plates. He’s desperate for Harry to say yes, to give some sign that Harry doesn’t completely despise him for whatever it is that Louis’ done wrong, but Harry just shakes his head and says:

“I’m going to bed. Tired.”

“It’s still early.” Louis curses himself for how desperate he sounds but he hates seeing Harry like this, the kicked-puppy expression on his face. “Come on. Half an hour.”

Harry’s shaking his head again before Louis’ even finished speaking. “N-no. It’s ok.”

Louis watches TV for a bit after Harry has gone upstairs but he can’t lose himself in anything, however much he pages through the channels, looking for distraction. He’s restless, on edge, and eventually he gives up and goes to bed. He doesn’t fall asleep for a long time though, and he’s still awake when Harry creeps downstairs, just before midnight. Lying in the darkness, listening to Harry washing up the dishes and tidying away Louis’ shoes and jacket, Louis wonders what the hell he’s got himself into.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A party, some conversations, and one huge misunderstanding.

After three weeks of living together Louis finds it increasingly difficult to remember what life was like before Harry moved in. He’d been worried that they’d get on each other’s nerves - sharing such a tiny house and not really knowing each other - but Harry takes up surprisingly little space for someone so tall and lanky. Or maybe Harry just has the knack of not grating on Louis’ nerves the way other housemates have before. Somehow they fit together in a way Louis can’t really explain but is really, truly grateful for, and Louis goes to work and Harry does whatever it is Harry does all day - Louis knows he's job hunting, applying for everything and anything he can find - and if it makes Harry happy to tidy up after Louis and cook ridiculously delicious meals ready for when Louis gets home from work then Louis isn’t going to complain.

In short, Louis’ life has got a lot better since Harry moved in, and not just because his bank account is edging towards being back in credit for the first time in a very long time.

“So when do we get a dinner invite?” Zayn asks as Louis sits down with their tray.

“How about never?” Louis says shortly. Lunch with Zayn and his girlfriend on Louis’ day off had seemed like a good idea when Zayn first suggested it but Louis is rapidly starting to regret ever agreeing. It isn’t that the little cafe tucked away on the university campus isn’t packed out - because it is - or that being on a university campus in the first place reminds him all over again that it could have been him complaining about lecturers and stressing over deadlines - because it does - but more that their little lunch date gives Zayn the perfect opportunity to ask all the questions Louis has been studiously avoiding since Harry moved in. And, short of running out the door, it’s hard to avoid answering.

“We just want to meet him, that’s all,” Zayn says reasonably.

“You _have_ met him,” Louis points out.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Three years ago, yeah. Not like we’re mates or anything, is it?”

“We want to taste the cooking,” Alisa interjects, winking at Zayn before turning her attention back to Louis. “Must be good, the belly you’re getting.”

“I am _not_ getting a belly,” Louis says indignantly.

“You are a bit, mate,” Zayn says, eyeing him critically. “Not quite as lean and mean as you were.”

“Fuck off.” Louis gives him a glare but the words still sting a bit. It isn’t his fault that he’s eating properly for the first time in, well, years, and his body is taking its time getting used to a diet that isn’t crisps and Pot Noodles and Haribo. It isn’t his fault that Harry has turned out to be such a good cook.

“So tell us more about your housemate,” Alisa says into the awkward silence. “Apart from the cooking.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Louis shifts his chair out of the way of the gaggle of girls who’ve just sat down at the next table.

“See, he never tells me anything either,” Zayn says to her. “Unless it’s about food.”

“Hey!”

“Harry cooked this, Harry cooked that-”

Alisa laughs, “Can we borrow him?”

“Or swap him for my flatmates," Zayn says morosely. "None of them ever do the washing up. From what I’m hearing, _someone’s_ kitchen has never been so clean.”

“We definitely need to borrow him,” Alisa says. “Give us his number, Lou.”

It is ridiculous, really, how much it makes Louis’ heart clench to even contemplate the possibility of letting Harry go, because Harry isn’t his to lose: he is Louis’ housemate, nothing more, and Louis has no claim on him, hardly even knows him. “It’s not all about food,” he mutters. “Or cleaning.”

Alisa sits up a bit in her chair. “Oh?”

Louis mentally kicks himself. He knows _exactly_ what interpretation they’ll put on that. “He’s not my type,” he says, as dismissively as he can.

“He’s his type,” Zayn says, taking a sip of his tea.

“Fuck off; you haven’t seen him in three years, you have no idea what he looks like now," Louis says indignantly. "And you have no idea whether he’s my type or not.”

“What does he look like then?” Alisa asks.

 _Eyes that seem to see into the depths of Louis’ soul. A sudden, bright, smile that is too rare for Louis’ liking but utterly devastating when it does make an appearance. Hands that Louis wants to feel on his body. Legs that go on for ever_.

“He’s tall,” Louis says. “So, have you seen what they’ve done to the library?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Alisa says, waving a finger at him disapprovingly. “We want to know more. All the details.”

“So you’re going to be disappointed.” Louis pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. “Life is cruel and hard.”

“Not the only thing that’s hard in your house,” Zayn mutters. Louis gives him a glare.

“You coming to the party later?” Alisa asks. “I won’t ask about Harry, promise.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” It means a taxi back afterwards, which Louis can’t really afford in spite of Harry taking his share of the rent, but he feels like drinking himself into oblivion tonight.

“You should bring him,” Zayn says, winking at Alisa when he thinks Louis isn’t looking.

“No chance,” Louis says flatly. “I know what you two are like. I don’t need you setting me up.”

“No, your sex life’s disastrous all on your own,” Zayn says, smirking.

“Go fuck yourself.” Louis grabs his jacket off the chair and pulls it on. “Anyway, he likes girls. Probably.”

“So you _do_ like him.” Alisa shares a triumphant smile with Zayn. “We knew it!”

“I hate the pair of you,” Louis tells them, and walks away.

"See you at eight," Alisa shouts after him. “Don’t forget to bring Harry!”

Louis pretends he hasn’t heard.

***

“I’m _really_ sorry about this,” Louis tells Harry. They’ve been at Zayn’s party for under a minute and he’s already apologising; he can tell that it’s going to be one of those nights.

Harry looks bemusedly at the drink in his hand. “I’ve never had a cocktail in a plastic mug before,” he says, poking at the sad-looking paper parasol.

“Trust me, that’s sophisticated for these things. I think it’s safe to drink, anyway.”

“You _think_ it’s safe?”

“Yeah, well.” Louis waves a hand to encompass the narrow confines of the hallway they’re standing in, the streamers made from KitKat wrappers blu-tacked to the ceiling, and the three prone figures on the floor. “Once they accidentally mixed in some washing-up liquid.”

Harry’s eyes go wide. “Were they ok?”

“Once they stopped throwing up, yeah,” Louis reassures him. “But I think this is ok. You probably won't die.”

The door at the other end of the hallway opens, releasing a wave of sound and a line of five girls Louis vaguely recognises as Alisa’s friends doing a drunken conga that gets all of four steps before they simultaneously collapse in a giggling, sprawling heap. Behind them in the kitchen Louis can make out one of Zayn’s housemates standing on the table, balancing a pint glass on his head while a small crowd cheers him on.

“We don’t have to stay,” he tells Harry.

Harry just smiles. “It’s ok,” he says.

“Louis!” one of the girls yells, struggling to her feet. He recognises her as one of Alisa’s flatmates; remembers that she kissed him once, a long time ago. He hadn’t really minded either, even though he’d long since come to terms with the fact that he preferred boys.

“Hi, Ali.”

She grins at him as she comes over, and then her eyes slide over to Harry and when she looks back to Louis the grin has become a smirk.

“Don’t even start,” Louis tells her.

“Who’s your friend?” she asks anyway.

Harry, being the idiot Louis remembers him being, sticks out a hand. “I’m Harry,” he says.

Ali solemnly shakes the proffered hand. “Hi, Harry; I’m Ali. So you’re Louis’ _friend_ , right?”

Louis rolls his eyes at the unsubtle emphasis but Harry doesn’t seem to have noticed. “Yeah,” he says, smiling. “He let me move in.”

“I bet he did,” Ali says, ignoring Louis’ squawk of indignation.

The other girls are coming over now too, drawn to Harry like moths to a flame, and Louis gets it, he does. There’s something about Harry - something that’s always been there - that draws people in. That drew Louis in, right from the start.

“I’m going to find Zayn,” he says, to no one in particular because no one’s really listening; Harry is surrounded and doesn’t look too unhappy about the sudden onslaught of female attention.

It’s not like he came here with Harry, he tells himself. He came here to get drunk and what Harry does is no business of his.

It’s very nearly the truth.

***

“What time is it?” Zayn asks.

Louis squints at the clock on the wall. Everything’s ever-so-slightly out of focus and it takes him a minute or two to work it out. “Half one,” he says eventually.

Zayn nods. “You should talk to Harry,” he says, and that throws Louis a little because they’ve talked about a lot of things tonight but none of them have been related to Harry or X Factor or even Louis’ train wreck existence and the sudden mention comes out of nowhere.

“I live with him,” he says defensively. “I can talk to him any time.”

Zayn cracks open an eye. “You know what I mean, man.”

“No, I don’t.”

The eye closes again. Zayn huffs a laugh. “Twat.”

Louis waits but Zayn doesn’t say anything else.

It’s only them in Zayn’s room. The party’s still going on downstairs and there’s some loud sex going on in the room next door and someone’s throwing up very noisily in the bathroom opposite, but Louis feels pleasantly disconnected from it all, the hollow ache of earlier replaced by a warm numbness of the soul.

The door opens and Alisa storms in, a distracted smile for Louis and an exasperated glare for Zayn. “Where’s the rest of the vodka?” she demands. “I told you to leave it in the living room!”

Zayn doesn’t open his eyes but he waves a hand vaguely in her direction, which does nothing to calm her bad temper.

“Zayn!”

“It’s ok,” Louis says. “I’ll find it. He only has three hiding places.”

She snorts, but lets Louis lead her out of Zayn’s room and back downstairs. They have to climb over the couple making out on the stairs and someone’s been sick on the carpet at the bottom but they make it to the kitchen safely. After the muted light of Zayn’s room and the hallway, it seems very bright in the kitchen and Louis thinks he can feel a headache coming on.

“Everyone’s in the garden,” Alisa says when she sees Louis looking around at the empty room. “Someone found some fireworks.”

“They’re letting off fireworks?”

Alisa snorts again. “No; they’re trying to work out how to light the fireworks. And they won’t be able to because they found them in the shed and next door’s cat pees on them so no way are they going to light. They’ve been trying for an hour and a half.”

Louis laughs. “Probably a good thing.”

“Yeah. So where’s this vodka?”

Louis opens the cupboard under the sink and, just as he’d suspected, the shelf is full of bottles. “Told you; he only has three hiding places.”

Alisa kisses his cheek, a quick, light peck. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

“Not recently.” Louis retrieves a couple of bottles and sets them on the counter for her. “Got a glass?”

She holds out a plastic beaker with bunnies printed on it. “Here.”

“Classy.”

“Don’t knock it.” She looks around the kitchen and the assorted debris that covers every available surface. “There was some Pepsi over there.”

The door opens; it’s Ali. She smiles at them both and heads for the vodka. “Oh, you found it,” she says.

“Louis found it,” Alisa says. “There’s nothing to mix it with, though.”

“There’s some lemonade in the living room.” Ali starts to say something else but stops abruptly, half way through the first word. Louis nearly misses it in his lethargic state but something about the way she looks at him catches his attention.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“You’re a shit liar,” he tells her. “What’s going on?”

She looks at Alisa, as if she’s looking for back-up. “Just … it’s a party, right?”

“I’ll get that lemonade,” Alisa says briskly, and there’s some sort of unvoiced conversation going on between them that Louis isn’t party to, some sort of female mutual understanding he is very firmly shut out of.

“What the fuck is going on?” he demands when Alisa has gone.

“Nothing,” Ali says, and it isn’t any more convincing than her previous denials.

“Just _tell_ me,” he says exasperatedly.

Ali leans back against the counter and sips her neat vodka. “Ok,” she says reluctantly. “But promise me you won’t flip out, yeah?”

“Ok,” Louis says slowly, feeling suddenly and unaccountably nervous.

Ali fiddles with her necklace and takes another sip of vodka before she speaks, but when she does the words are oddly precise, as if she wants to be very sure that there’s no misunderstanding.

“Harry’s in there with Ruth.”

“In- oh.”

He _knew_ ; of course Harry likes girls. Of course. Whatever closeness he and Harry had shared back on X Factor had been nothing more than the charm Harry bestows on everyone on Harry’s side and a torrent of confusion over his sexuality on Louis’. Nothing more. And now they’re housemates and maybe they’re on their way to being friends but he doesn’t have any real claim on Harry, and if Harry hooks up with Ali and Alisa’s housemate at a party then it’s no business of Louis’.

“Good for him,” he says, and he’s proud of how normal he manages to make it sound.

Ali is looking at him with an odd expression on her face and he thinks she’s going to say something, but then Alisa comes back with the lemonade and they’re having another silent conversation that excludes him and Louis can’t bear it any more.

“I’m going to watch the fireworks,” he says.

Neither of them say anything as he walks to the door but he knows they’re going to start talking about him the second he’s out of the house. About him and Harry, and Zayn’s stupid ideas about them getting together, and how stupid he was even bringing Harry here tonight. To think that he ever had a chance with Harry.

It’s freezing outside; his breath mists as soon as he steps out the door into the back yard and the concrete path is slippery with frost beneath his shoes. Since he doesn’t want to go back inside for his jacket, he shoves his hands in his jeans pockets and heads for the huddle of people standing next to the fence at the end of the yard. He doesn’t recognise any of them but that’s a good thing; no one asks him questions he doesn’t want to answer and someone offers him a cigarette and someone else offers him a can of some supermarket beer and it’s not so bad.

The firework problem seems to have been resolved by putting the fireworks back in the shed and lighting a fire in an old metal bin instead. Louis can’t quite see what they’ve used for fuel but every now and then someone throws in some dead branches that have fallen from next door’s overhanging tree and that’s keeping the fire going. Louis stands as close to it as he dares and sips at his beer, half-listening to the chatter of the people around him and half-lost in contemplation as he stares into the flames.

Someone bumps against his elbow, not hard enough to spill his beer but enough to get his attention.

“Sorry,” the guy says.

Louis shrugs. “S’ok.”

He expects the stranger to move on but he stays where he is, closer to Louis than is strictly comfortable. It’s cold, though, so Louis doesn’t mind too much. A little bit of shared body heat is better than none.

“You friends with Zayn?” the stranger asks after a while.

“Yeah. You?”

“I’m on his course.” The stranger bumps against Louis’ elbow again. “Gareth.”

“Louis.”

The stranger - Gareth - nods. They stand in silence for a while but it’s a strangely companionable silence and Louis doesn’t mind it. Here in the darkness, in the cold, they’re nothing but two strangers brought together by circumstance, sharing body heat and, after a while, Louis’ cigarette.

“Want to go somewhere?” Gareth asks, very quietly, and there’s no mistaking the implication. Louis stubs out the cigarette.

“Yeah. Not into the house though.”

“Where, then?”

Louis doesn’t bother replying; he gestures for Gareth to follow him and leads him to the other side of the yard, where the boundary wall is low enough to climb over.

“Won’t someone see us?” Gareth asks nervously when they’re both on the other side.

“They’re away half the year,” Louis tells him. “Otherwise they’d have called the police hours ago, yeah?” He waves a hand in the general direction of Zayn’s house. “Don’t worry about it. No one’s going to see us.”

Gareth nods, and there’s a moment that seems to stretch a little, a moment of hesitation and then decision as his hand brushes Louis’ arm and then falls to rest lightly against Louis’ hip. Louis reaches out for him in turn, taking in for the first time how tall the other man is, taller than Harry.

“You’re pretty,” Gareth says, cupping Louis’ cheek with his other hand as he leans in, and that makes irritation flare in Louis’ chest, makes him turn his head just enough to avoid the kiss.

“It’s dark; you can’t see me,” he says bitingly.

“Saw you inside.” Gareth sounds amused rather than dissuaded. He’s unfastening Louis’ belt with one hand and Louis whines as the cold air hits his skin.

“And you thought you’d stalk me out here?”

He feels rather than sees Gareth’s shrug. “Was worth a try.”

Louis reaches up, gets a good grip on Gareth’s hair, and tugs, pulling him down for a jarring, bruising kiss that tastes of nicotine and cheap beer and desperation. Gareth gasps into his mouth and whimpers when Louis nips at his bottom lip but he doesn’t protest.

“Still think it was worth it?” Louis needles.

“Maybe.” Gareth groans as Louis’ free hand cups him through his jeans. “Can I- can I fuck you? Want to fuck you.”

They’re in Zayn’s neighbour’s yard and it’s freezing cold and the middle of the night and Louis is drunk and maybe still a little high and definitely more than a little angry and confused and heartsick, and maybe this is exactly what he needs right now. Someone who wants him. Someone who needs him, even for a moment.

“Less talking,” he tells Gareth, twisting his hand in the other man’s hair again as he fishes the condom out of his jeans pocket with his other hand.

“I can do that.”

“ _Talking_ ,” Louis snaps, slamming Gareth back against the wall at the back of the yard. He's not worried about attracting attention: as far as he’s aware, no one at the party even noticed them climbing over the wall and no one’s going to miss them. He just doesn't want to waste time on conversation when he could be getting fucked instead. “Here. Take it, use it.”

“I don’t have any-”

“Spit.” Louis turns away, unfastens and pushes down his jeans and boxers. “I’ll be fine.” He wants it rough, wants it to hurt just _enough_. A quick, anonymous fuck is exactly what he needs tonight. “Not exactly a blushing virgin.”

Gareth seems to get the hint after that; he doesn’t waste any more time. Louis leans against the wall and rests his forehead against the bricks. They’re cold on his overheated skin, a covering sheen of frost melting almost at once to water that trickles down his cheek. He’s shivering, teeth chattering as he waits, and then Gareth is there, his hands on Louis’ hips, warm and solid and not enough.

“Fuck me,” Louis demands. He’s almost painfully hard and he wants to get fucked, hard, _now_ , and every second of delay is a second too long. “Do it.”

But Gareth isn’t fucking him; he’s pulling away instead, exposing Louis to the freezing air. The reason for this becomes obvious moments later when Louis hears the sound of soft footsteps behind them, and then the sudden, blinding glare of someone’s phone light illuminates the whole sorry scene.

 _Great_ , he thinks. _A photo of my arse on Facebook. Like that’s going to make my life any worse_.

“L-Louis?”

It's Harry.

“Fuck,” Louis says coherently. He’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“You can’t wear sunglasses in here,” Rachel says when she turns up for work the next morning, fifteen minutes late and reeking of a sickly-sweet perfume that leaves Louis feeling instantly nauseated.

Louis is amazed she’s even noticed what he’s wearing; as usual she’s busy texting and barely spares him a glance as she perches on one of the chairs at the counter.

“Watch me,” he mutters, and goes to hide in the stockroom for a while. He’s not really up to dealing with customers and since he normally does most of the work anyway he thinks she can do something for a change.

Not that it helps to be alone. His head is pounding and everything is too bright, too loud, _too much_. He’d managed less than two hours sleep before his alarm went off and he’d tumbled out of bed in a cloud of stale beer and bitterness.

Harry hadn’t made him breakfast. There’d been no sign of Harry at all, and Louis had started to panic that he’d moved out before he’d spotted Harry’s boots lined up neatly next to the door and his jacket hanging on the coat rack.

Maybe, he thinks, settling himself down on a box of promotional leaflets, it was for the best that Harry hadn’t been out of bed. Louis remembers far too much of the painfully awkward taxi ride back from the party, Harry silent and looking out of the window and Louis trying to think of something to say that wasn’t going to make him sound like a complete idiot.

But there had been a glass of water on his bedside table this morning, one he knows for certain he hadn’t put there, and he thinks maybe Harry doesn’t hate him too much, not if he’s still concerned about Louis’ welfare.

By ten am he’s feeling well enough to go back out. His head still hurts and the choking scent of Rachel’s perfume still makes him want to vomit but he pastes on a smile and goes over to the first victim of the day.

“Hi!”

The woman turns and looks at him and frowns. “Are you all right?” she asks, looking genuinely concerned, and, ok, maybe he isn’t as _better_ as he’d hoped.

“I’m fine!”

She looks unconvinced. “Why are you wearing sunglasses?”

Louis can tell it’s going to be one of those days.

***

Harry is cooking dinner when he gets home. He’d left early, not even giving Rachel a chance to object, and as a result he’d even managed to get out of town before rush hour started.

Harry looks round when Louis enters the kitchen. He even smiles, which Louis hadn’t been expecting.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Louis lies.

“You look a bit pale,” Harry says, frowning.

Louis groans. “Don’t you start.” Harry just looks confused so he adds, “I’ve had people saying that all day.”

“It’s true though.” Harry turns back to the stove and stirs whatever’s bubbling away in a casserole dish Louis didn’t know he owned. “Food’s nearly ready, anyway.”

“What is it?”

“Chicken stew.”

“It smells amazing, thank you,” Louis says, and he means it. Then, because he can’t help picking away at the scab, “About last night-”

“It’s ok,” Harry says quickly. He doesn’t look at Louis but Louis sees his cheeks go pink. “It was my fault.”

“Your fault that you got to see my arse?” Louis asks, bemused.

Harry’s cheeks go even pinker. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just, like, wondering about the taxi and I-”

He stops, practically glowing with embarrassment. Louis takes pity on him. “Harry, it’s fine,” he tells him. “I was just - surprised.”

“He ran away,” Harry points out.

Louis laughs, because Gareth _had_ run away, muttering something uncomplimentary before tripping over his own feet as he tried to fasten his jeans while running. The last Louis had seen of him had been his feet disappearing over a garden wall. Once Louis starts laughing he can’t control it and it must be infectious because Harry starts laughing too and the pair of them end up sitting on the floor, barely able to look at each other without giggling.

“I _am_ sorry,” Harry says eventually.

“Haz, it’s ok,” Louis says. “That’s not even the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m not angry.”

“Really?”

“Really. Even though you did cockblock me.”

That wipes the smile off Harry’s face. “I’m sorr-”

“ _Don’t_ apologise.” Louis doesn’t like the way Harry’s face changes; there’s something off about the situation and he doesn’t understand why the mood has changed so suddenly. “You have nothing to apologise for,” he amends. “Just don’t take a photo of my bare arse again, yeah?”

“It was just the light,” Harry protests. “I couldn’t see. I didn’t take a photo.”

“Shame,” Louis teases. “I had my good pants on, too. Not that you could really appreciate them but still.”

Harry doesn’t say anything and the uneasy feeling is back because this doesn’t seem like Harry. Not the Harry he remembers, anyway; the Harry who’d always been ready with a cheeky comment and would never have let an opportunity like that go to waste. He has to remind himself that it’s been a long time and he hardly knew Harry then, so maybe the Harry he remembers isn’t the real Harry after all.

He sniffs, frowning. “Is that something burning?”

“Fuck!” Harry scrambles to his feet. Louis stands up too, grinning as Harry flails to salvage what he can.

“It’s ok,” he says, smirking. “I like my food crispy.”

Harry just hunches over the stove, his hand gripping the handle of the spatula he’s trying to stir the stew with so tightly his knuckles are white. Louis’ smirk fades.

“Really, it’s fine,” he offers. “It smells great, Haz. And you know you’re a much better cook than me. I could burn water.”

Harry still doesn’t say anything, but Louis sees the way he hurriedly wipes his eyes as he reaches for some plates and - _fuck_ \- Louis doesn’t know what to do. He’s never seen anyone get so upset over a burnt dinner before.

“Want me to do anything?” he asks warily.

Harry shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice so quiet Louis has to strain to hear him. “I can- I can make you something else.”

“Haz, it’s fine.”

“An omelette. I could make you an omelette.”

“Harry, really, it’s fine.” Louis takes a step towards him but something about the way Harry’s standing makes him reluctant to touch. “Seriously, I’ll eat it. Cast-iron stomach, that’s me. Have to be with my cooking. I had a kebab once from that place next to the bus station that got closed down by environmental health the next day; I can manage an overdone stew.”

There’s a pause - a very long pause - before Harry finally nods. “Ok,” he says. And then, “Sorry.”

They eat in silence, partly because Louis can’t think of anything to say that won’t lead to Harry apologising again and partly because the stew is _really_ good and Louis is too busy wolfing it down and going back for seconds to waste time on conversation. Harry picks at his food at first but when Louis goes back for another helping he visibly relaxes and starts eating properly.

“That was amazing,” Louis says when he’s done, leaning back and wishing he’d worn something a bit looser around the waist. “I am never letting you move out. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

Harry blushes but he looks pleased, and Louis thinks idly that it’s a good look on him. “I used to cook for my mum. And I like cooking.”

“You’re really good at it,” Louis says sincerely.

Harry’s blush deepens; he covers his embarrassment by collecting Louis’ plate and taking them both to rinse in the sink. Louis expects him to be gone for a while but Harry is back a moment later, standing in the doorway like he has something to say.

“What?” Louis asks.

“I’m- Will your boyfriend be ok?”

“My- Oh.” Louis smiles wryly. “Yeah, he isn’t - wasn’t - my boyfriend. Just some guy. Who I probably won’t see again. Hopefully.”

“Right,” Harry says slowly. “Sorry.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I thought you’d got the idea about how disastrous my love life is. Didn’t Ruth tell you? I know they all like taking the piss.”

Harry frowns. “Ruth?”

“The girl you were with last night,” Louis says. “Fuck, how pissed were you? You didn’t even get her _name_?”

Something strange passes over Harry’s face, too quick for Louis to pin down. “Oh, her,” he says flatly.

“Yes, _her_ ,” Louis mimics. “Seeing her again?”

Harry shakes his head, and then he’s disappearing back into the kitchen and somehow Louis’ managed to fuck up again and he’s not even sure how.

***

A week passes, then two. On the surface things are fine: in fact, on the surface, things are great. Harry’s managed to find himself a part-time job at a bakery which is on Louis’ route to work so Louis can give him a lift in. He finishes much earlier than Louis, so the house is always clean and dinner ready when Louis gets home from work. He seems happier, too, volunteering information about his day and the women he works with without being prompted. They watch TV together in the evenings, talking about everything and anything, which is fine just as long as the conversation never strays into dangerous territory.

Louis has a mental list of Topics to Avoid. In his mind it thoroughly warrants the emphasis, because nothing destroys their fragile equilibrium faster than mentioning one of those topics and Louis has come to terms with the fact that he’ll do anything to avoid seeing that particular mixture of misery and fretful anxiety on Harry’s face as he had the night Harry burnt their dinner.

Zayn tells him he and Harry have exchanged a few emails since the party but Harry doesn’t seem inclined to get any closer. Neither, he confides, has Harry been in touch with Ruth. That revelation makes Louis feel unaccountably cheerful.

“Where the fuck has he been for three years?” Zayn asks one afternoon as they close up the shop for the day.

“Ask him,” Louis says shortly.

Zayn laughs hollowly. “Yeah, right. Tried that, man.”

“What did he say?”

“Still waiting for an email back. Sent it last week.”

Louis sighs. “Join the club then. He won’t tell me anything either.”

“What about his mum and dad? They were all right.”

“I haven’t seen them,” Louis says. He hadn’t thought of it, if he’s honest with himself. “Harry doesn’t have visitors.”

“Neither do you,” Zayn points out. “Antisocial twat.”

“Yeah, but I do talk to my family.” Louis scowls at the cheerful cardboard family in the display stand in front of him. “On the phone, admittedly. Harry doesn’t ring anyone, not from the house phone, anyway.”

“Maybe he’s on the run.”

“Harry,” Louis says disbelievingly. “ _Harry_ ’s on the run? Really?”

Zayn shrugs. “Witness protection program?”

Louis throws a special deal leaflet at him. “Yeah, that sounds likely.”

“It’s better than anything you’ve come up with,” Zayn says pointedly. “He turns up out of nowhere, moves in in the middle of the night, freaks out when he sees you wi-”

“He didn’t _freak out_ ,” Louis says uncomfortably. “Maybe I freaked out a bit. You weren’t there, anyway.” A thought occurs to him. “Fuck, what did Gareth say?”

“You remembered his name, well done,” Zayn says, grinning.

“Fuck off. What did he say?”

“Nothing.” Zayn kicks an empty box across the room and starts collecting up the discarded packaging. “Every time he sees me he goes really red and runs away. Think you hurt his pride, man.”

“ _His_ pride?” Louis says indignantly.

“He fell in number 47’s compost bin, man. Have some sympathy, yeah?”

Louis snorts. “Yeah, ok.”

“You need to ask him,” Zayn goes on. “Ask Harry what’s going on. Whatever it is, can’t be that bad.”

Louis pulls a face. “He won’t tell me anything. He’s a stubborn little shit.”

Zayn grins. “Always was. Remember?”

“Yeah.” And Louis does; he may not have many memories of Harry from their all-too brief stint on X Factor but he remembers how determined, how stubborn Harry was back then. He might have been the youngest of them but he’d known his own mind and hadn’t been easily swayed. He sighs. “I’ll talk to him,” he says reluctantly. “Don’t think I’ll get any answers but I’ll talk to him. Just don’t blame me if he won’t tell me anything.”

Zayn’s grin widens. “I believe in you, Tommo,” he says seriously.

Louis throws another leaflet at him.

***

In retrospect it’s a really bad idea but at the time, when he’d been sitting watching yet another payday loan ad on TV while the rain hammered down outside and slowly losing his will to live, it had seemed like an eminently reasonable way of getting at least _some_ answers.

It’s his day off, Harry is out of the house for another four hours at least, and Harry’s room doesn’t have a lock on it. So, Louis reasons, it isn’t exactly breaking and entering. Harry has never said, specifically, that he doesn’t want Louis going in his room. For all Louis knows, Harry would have been perfectly happy for Louis to go in his room when he was out of the house and poke around for evidence of him being on a witness protection program or being a criminal mastermind or whatever it was he was hiding, if Louis had bothered to ask him.

Which he hadn’t. Louis squares his shoulders and picks up some dry washing and takes it upstairs with him, even though he isn’t sure if the socks he was holding are even Harry’s. It makes him feel slightly better about the whole thing.

He hasn’t actually been up to Harry’s room since Harry moved in and he isn’t sure what, exactly, he expected to find. The reality is almost disappointing: at first sight the room looks every bit as sparse as it had before, and it’s only when he takes a second, longer look around that he spots a few things he knows belong to Harry: a book next to the bed, neatly bookmarked; a crucifix necklace hanging from the handle of the skylight window.

Louis carefully sets the dry socks on the bed. He can smell a lingering trace of Harry’s deodorant in the air and, beneath that, Harry’s own clean, warm scent. It’s oddly calming, this sanctuary that Harry has created for himself under the eaves, and Louis sits down on the bed, telling himself that he’s just out of breath from climbing the stairs, that he just needs a moment to catch his breath.

It doesn’t sound like a good excuse even in the privacy of his own head.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, listening to the patter of the rain on the roof tiles and thinking of nothing much, but his growling stomach eventually reminds him that he hasn’t had anything today except two cups of tea and he can’t mope in Harry’s room all day. He reluctantly gets to his feet and then he hesitates, battling with his conscience for all of ten seconds before he gives in to the overwhelming curiosity that’s been nagging at him for weeks.

There’s nothing interesting in the drawer of the bedside table: a packet of paracetamol, a packet of something he thinks are sedatives that hasn’t been opened, a couple of biros and a blank notepad. The wardrobe is similarly dull: apart from noting how few clothes Harry actually owns Louis would struggle to find anything interesting to say about its contents. There’s a letter from the bank thanking Harry for opening an account, a blank application form for a job in a warehouse, and a leaflet for the local library, but nothing at all that pre-dates Harry moving in with Louis.

_Who lives like this?_ Louis thinks, looking around in frustration. And then an idea occurs to him and he crouches down and peers under the bed. He doesn’t spot it at first, but almost by chance he catches sight of the edge of an envelope poking out from between the metal frame and the mattress. It’s not easy to retrieve it; Harry has longer arms and, apparently, joints that bend in ways Louis’ don’t, but eventually he manages to pull it out of its hiding place.

The envelope is plain and unmarked. It’s not stuck down or sealed in any way and, since he’s come this far, Louis throws caution and conscience to the wind and opens it.

There are three photographs in the envelope, along with a torn-off scrap of paper with a mobile number Louis doesn’t recognise scrawled on it. One photograph has four people posing for the camera; smiling, relaxed. Louis recognises a much younger Harry and he thinks the others are his parents and sister. It’s a nice photo and Louis can’t understand why Harry keeps it hidden away.

The second photograph is Harry’s X Factor mugshot. He looks younger than Louis remembers, innocently unguarded in the way he smiles at the camera, as if he hasn’t yet learnt that the world isn’t all sunshine and ponies. It makes Louis’ heart ache a little to look at it.

The third photograph is them. Louis stares at it for a long, long time because he recognises this photograph and it brings back so many memories he’s spent three years trying to suppress. The five of them, waiting to board their flight, giddy and hopeful and already planning out what they were going to do when they were rich and famous. New to the world they’d been thrown into, and to each other, but already feeling like this was something special. That _they_ were something special.

Their confidence had been misplaced, as it had turned out, and Louis has spent a long time trying very hard not to think about how it had been his fault they’d been sent home, and the photograph and the rush of memories it provokes leave him unsettled and faintly nauseated.

Louis doesn’t know why Harry keeps the photograph, why he’s bothered having it printed. To him it means nothing but regret and disappointment but for whatever reason Harry keeps it tucked away underneath his bed. It makes no sense to Louis. Sighing, he puts the photographs back in the envelope and crouches back down to put everything back where he found it so Harry won’t know he’s been going through his possessions.

Which is, of course, when the door opens and there’s no time for Louis to pretend he’s doing anything other than what he is doing.

“Um, hi” he says coherently, peering up at Harry. “You’re home early.”

Harry’s expression is unreadable. He looks taller, suddenly; older. “Yeah,” is all he says.

Louis gets awkwardly to his feet and tries to think of something to say. “I brought your washing up,” he tries. _Idiot._

“Yeah,” Harry says again.

“Right.” Louis inches towards the door but Harry is still stood there and there’s no dignified way for Louis to make his escape. “Look, I’m sorry,” he says. “I was just-”

“Snooping around?”

“Yeah.” Louis fidgets uncomfortably. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have looked.”

“It’s your house,” Harry says.

“It’s your room,” Louis points out. “And, um, I was wrong, Very wrong. I won’t do it again. You can, um, go and snoop around my room, if you want.”

Harry finally takes a step forward, giving Louis an escape route. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks.

Louis debates going for an easy lie but in the end he settles for, “That’s a good pic of us. On X Factor.” There’s no point pretending he hasn’t looked when Harry has caught him putting the envelope back in its hiding place.

Harry’s face softens a little then. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, it is.”

“And the one of your mum and dad, that’s good. You should get a frame for it. Put it downstairs, if you like.”

He knows at once he’s said the wrong thing; he can see Harry shut down. But all Harry says is, “Maybe.”

Louis takes a step towards the door and Harry doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to stop him. Doesn’t even move as Louis slips past him and down the stairs, and Louis thinks that if he looks back he’ll see Harry still standing there, as immobile as a statue.

And Louis isn't any closer to working him out.


End file.
